Sophia
4 am- I wake up from a nightmare. I only dream in night terrors. Some feel more real than others. This one was about my father dying.
4:30 am- I decide I will not be sleeping anymore. Go downstairs and feed the dogs. The big one gets one full scoop of food; the little one gets ⅓ of a scoop of food. I take them on a walk (separately). I hit my head on a low-hanging ‘for sale’ sign at the end of the block and the noise echoes through the street. My pug looks up at me and cocks her head. She’s judging me.
5 am- I make breakfast sandwiches. One for me, one for my new husband. Bacon, egg, and cheese on leftover kaiser rolls. I toast them with mayo in the toaster oven because I think it tastes better than butter. I wash the dishes, empty the dishwasher, and shower (even though I’m going to the pool later and will have to wash my hair again). I walk to work across the South Street Bridge amongst the nurses and doctors rushing to their shift and muse about how much more stressful their work days must be than mine. I could never work a job that has those kinds of stakes. I think it would make me jump off this bridge. I like teaching and reading and doing my little tasks which don’t feel little to me, but certainly aren’t as big as surgery.
6:30 am- EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS DATA INPUT DATA INPUT DATA INPUT DATA INPUT MAIL BOOKS MAIL BOOKS MAIL BOOKS MAIL BOOKS MAKE SYLLABUS MAKE SYLLABUS MAKE SYLLABUS EMAILS EMAILS MISSING RECEIPT AFFIDAVIT MISSING RECEIPT AFFIDAVIT DRINK WATER EAT CUCUMBER WITH HUMMUS EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS
9 am- I take a break from my real job to work on my other real job- writing. My boss told me one month ago that I need to write a book. I took him very seriously and am trying to write a book of prose about my best friend. This is an excerpt of the pages I wrote today:
But now I was in Philadelphia, on my first night of college, journeying into some great unknown, the start of what I desperately hoped would be a rebranding of the nerd from Florida who bit her tongue because she never knew how to find the right words, and a beautiful boy was telling me to wear my ratty old t-shirt to the party he heard about.
I slipped it over my head, grabbed some glitter from my makeup case, took a swig of the bottle in his hand and said, “okay, baby!”
On the walk to the frat house, I learned the boy’s name was Jamie, he was born in Seattle, but grew up in Los Angeles, and he didn’t even live in my dorm building. He lived in the quad, where most freshmen do, and decided that his hallmates were already too dull to entertain. But he remembered King’s Court College House’s third floor was home to a small dedicated program of students who were interested in the arts. I learned that he was a writer. I learned very quickly that he made sense to me.
Of course, I’d had friends before. I considered my twin sister my best friend, but that’s kind of the deal, right? My best friend from high school was a girl named Katie who was born in Russia, grew up in Saudi Arabia, and drove me everywhere since she had a car, a license, and money. I had none of those things. We did everything together, laughing until late hours in her big house. But this boy, with his frosted hair and wonky shoelaces, seemed to really see me. We fell easily into conversation about our homes, our mutual fear of calories, our silly dreams of being poets. He grabbed my hand as we walked up to the front door of the frat house, gave me a wink and said to the bouncer at the front door “do you guys let twinks in?”
And then we danced. Oh, how we danced.
10 am- I learn how to cut mango and cut it very badly for our staff meeting. I eat yogurt and granola at the staff meeting. Make jokes to my friend Wren and disrupt the meeting.
11 am- I walk to my boss’s house in West Philly to water his plants. My boss left to spend his summer in the Catskill mountains, working on his new book and helping with a summer camp. I worked at said summer camp when I was 19. I miss the mountains out there. For now, I’ve been tasked with watering his garden and all the plants he keeps inside. His house is very nice, with a new sunroom that I think I will use one day to write. (He said I could, I’m not being weird.)
12 pm- I return to work, drenched in sweat and hoping it doesn’t rain later and ruin my plans to go to the pool.
12:30 pm- EMAILS EMAILS EMAILS ERRORS AND OPT-OUTS ERRORS AND OPT-OUTS TIK TOK BREAK TIK TOK BREAK TIK TOK BREAK EMAILS ONLINE SHOPPING FOR MY FRIEND’S 30TH BIRTHDAY EMAILS ERRORS AND OPT-OUTS ERRORS AND OPT-OUTS TEXT MY SISTER ABOUT THE BROKEN SINK IN HER APARTMENT ASK MY MOM WHAT SHE’S EATING FOR LUNCH EMAILS EMAILS
2 pm- I wonder if it’s time to go home yet.
4:30 pm- I gather with my coworkers in the kitchen downstairs and we set off for adult swim at the public pool on South Street. It doesn’t open until 6 pm though so we stop for a drink at Grace Tavern first. My friend Reese notices me when I walk in and gives me a hug. The bartender says “I would normally card the two of you but since Reese knows you, I’ll let slide.” This is funny because she is being generous, but we are also 25 and 27. I get a City Wide.
6 pm- I haven’t been swimming in a long time and the only bathing suit I could find this morning is the one I wore on Halloween three years ago when I dressed up as a slutty Borat.
6:50 pm- My coworkers and I laugh. The water is cool. Today was a good day.
8:30 pm - I walk home and greet my new husband and our dogs. Except there’s a third unexpected dog in my home. Ripple. He is a pitbull boxer mix, fifteen years old, and built like a blunt. His owner, Kevin, is also on my sofa laughing with my new husband. I want to play Wii golf with them but I force myself to shower again, wash my tumbleweed of curls, apply moisturizer, put on eyelash serum, and braid my wet hair. Then I play Wii golf. Drink a seltzer. Win at Wii golf.
9:45 pm- I am watching the first season of White Collar on Netflix. I think Matt Bomer is probably not 5’11 as he claims to be, but his face is exceptionally pretty.
10:15 pm- I refill my water bottle and carry my pug upstairs. The big dog follows. I lay down and drift off. To nightmares.
Sophia DuRose is a poet who loves puns and pugs. You can find her on instagram @sophiadurose.
